


Valuing One's Winnings

by fawatson



Category: The Last of the Wine - Mary Renault
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 08:38:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3685599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phaedo and Xenophon meet at the Olympic Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Valuing One's Winnings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zopyrus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zopyrus/gifts).



> **Request:** I love the way Renault folds philosophical discussions into her narrative, and I’d love to see a conversation between Sokrates and Phaedo, or Sokrates and Xenophon, about pretty much anything. (Or Phaedo and Xenophon, haha, although I feel like they might have less to talk about?) I’d also love to see any of these characters on their own and/or interacting with others.
> 
>  **Author’s Notes:** Although considered the greater philosopher, almost nothing has survived of Phaedo’s writing, while Xenophon, who was more fighter than philosopher, wrote treatises that have been saved (one on the care and training of horses). Both knew Sokrates; and both, apparently, wrote about him (although the accuracy of Xenophon’s account is disputed). After Sokrates’ death Phaedo moved to Elis and founded a school of philosophy. Xenophon lived for a time at Scillus, which is relatively close. My story presumes they met in middle-age at Olympia (which is near to both) for the Games. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them.

The moment I saw him I realised that _of course_ I ought to have expected it. After all, chariot races are central to the games, and Xenophon’s horsemanship was famous. I stood quietly watching as he grinned and slapped a fine bay mare on the rump, then bent to inspect her hooves. I remembered him as a beardless youth, athletic but heavily muscled, favouring a Spartan hairstyle. His hair was still long, but his waist had thickened with age; and his beard was not only full but grey now. No doubt I was equally changed. We had not been great friends all those years before; the connexion had been Alexias – and Sokrates, of course. He was not someone I would have actively sought out had I been told he was here; probably he would say the same of me. But having seen him, I found I could not turn away without greeting. I continued to stand, waiting until he was through checking the team, before I raised my hand and spoke his name. 

“Phaedo!” Xenophon’s smile seemed genuine and he crossed swiftly to where I stood under the olive tree. There was no hesitation in his embrace as he gave me the kiss of peace. “I had not heard you were coming to Olympia this year. I thought you were far too busy teaching.” 

“Busy...yes. But not too busy for the Games,” I replied. “One must honour the gods whose truths shape our lives.”

“You must dine with me,” he said. “My quarters are over there,” he added with an expansive gesture toward a large striped tent prominently situated by the stream. I demurred but he insisted; and, as ever, my curiosity got the better of me. However, it was not just curiosity. Xenophon was, after all, one of the few left who could remember Sokrates, or perhaps I should say, one of the few who, having walked the agora at his side, did not later reject him. He could have – easily. After all, he wasn’t even in Athens when Sokrates was put on trial. Like so many other so called friends who turned their backs on the man, he could have pretended. Instead he had written the _Apology_. I, who had been there, might not completely agree with his account of Sokrates’ death; but I could not fault Xenophon for his loyalty. 

And so I joined him. The meal was not lavish; but he did me suitable honour as his guest. The lamb was tender and the olives fresh. His wine was the best quality. After the meal we savoured it watching the sun set. He recounted his time with Cyrus, a leader he thought “a good general, but not necessarily virtuous.” 

“How so?” I asked. 

“He set out to seize his brother’s throne and kill him,” explained Xenophon. “Such is the stuff of tragedy, and like heroes of old he found himself undone by it.”

“Yet, you followed him,” I remarked. 

“I followed him – and I learned.” Remembering how he and Sokrates had met (for I had been witness), I acknowledged the reference. 

There was a pause before Xenophon explained, “at the time I thought he represented virtue, even if now I see the inherent tragedy of the man. But don’t all heroes possess a fatal flaw that leads to their fall? Are they not all caught in the inevitable consequence of their actions? Orestes avenged his father’s death only to be pursued. Cyrus deceived his men and sought his brother’s death and received his own instead. Artaxerxes seems to have escaped retribution for oath-breaking, no doubt because he only _claimed_ his brother’s death when the deed was really done by Mithridates.” His voice took on an ironic twist. “Really the King ought to have rewarded the man for saving him from the Erinyes, not beheaded him.”

He paused to refill our glasses before adding, “And I was young. Youth, it seems, always finds excuses to try one’s hand at an adventure. Sokrates taught that we should pursue virtue rather than wealth. Cyrus’s rhetoric was all about seeking justice and one’s public duty to the state, none about profit. Though...,” he paused reflectively, “adventure does need some money to back it, as I discovered after Cyrus’ death.”

“You acquitted yourself well, from all accounts,” I said, thinking privately, from your _own_ account at least. But it would not have done to say that; he was my host, after all. And something of an old friend (though acquaintance would probably have been a more accurate description). 

“You read my memoire?” 

I nodded, saying, diplomatically I hoped, “I thought it very well written.”

Xenophon’s eyes glinted; I had not achieved quite the diplomacy I had hoped. “Well, I survived; many others did not, and as you well know, my dear Phaedo, history is normally written by the victors not the conquered.” It was a hit, though I took his chastisement as well-deserved. His _Anabasis_ was considered a great work, no matter its subject not to my taste, and my half-hearted praise was unworthy of it and of my mentor. 

Xenophon shrugged wryly. “Regardless, adventure is a young man’s game. I have had a few and I am now as you see.” He made a self-deprecating gesture toward his midriff. “And so now I train horses for others to take on campaign - and for the Games.”

“And write.”

“Indeed – it seemed the thing to do as a pupil of Sokrates.”

“Do you still consider yourself thus?” I wondered. He did not have the manner of a philosopher; but looked more like a retired general. Sokrates, also, had done military service as a younger man (too young for me to have known him as a soldier) but it had not seemed to shape his character and demeanour the way it had Xenophon’s. I wondered how much influence Sokrates had had on him. Though Xenophon had written the _Memorabilia_ as well as the _Apology_ so perhaps he had been more of an influence on this old soldier than I had formerly given credit for. My own life was example of that. I had known Sokrates only a very few years; but like an insect’s tiny bit which leaves a great swelling, so had Sokrates' words left a seed in my soul which grew into a great vine bearing ripe fruit. 

Once again Xenophon paused, then smiled slightly, before he said, “I have got out of the habit of these kinds of questions, Phaedo. Truly this evening _you_ have proved yourself a far more diligent pupil than I. But in the end, it all comes down to what one values, and I remain proud to have counted myself amongst Sokrates’ friends.” So saying he raised his cup and drank deep before pouring the dregs on the ground. 

I followed suit. How could I not? This blunt cavalry man, more at home with dogs and horses than men, nonetheless had an honesty and loyalty others supposedly better than he had lacked all those years ago. We had started from the same point; but our paths had taken widely different directions, yet led us back to the same place as friends of a man long dead. In the end, I thanked Xenophon for good food and good company and went back to my own tent for the night. 

The next day, his horses came second in the chariot race. I commiserated his loss, as one does; but looking at him, disappointed in the moment but confident and secure nonetheless, knew, in truth, he had never been anything other than a winner since he knew Sokrates.


End file.
